


citrus

by The_Resurrection_3D



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cannibalism, Canon Divergence - Season 2B, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Will Graham, M/M, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26909338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/The_Resurrection_3D
Summary: “Have I lost my mind, Hannibal?” Will asks with a wild, devious smile. “Or is this the way the world ends?”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	citrus

**Author's Note:**

> Talked myself out of naming this yeehaw simulator 6000. Maybe I shouldn't have. 
> 
> Inspired by various inside jokes and season five of Trailer Park Boys, particularly the youtube commenter who said Mr. Lahey's "Have I lost my mind, Ricky?" line sounded eerily romantic. 
> 
> This fandom intimidates me so I have to force myself to get over it by writing bullshit like this. I remade my twitter [(@resurrection3d)](https://twitter.com/resurrection_3D) to be more Hannibal-centric if you'd like to read more similar bullshit.

Hannibal tells Will he's worried about Will's recent increase in alcohol consumption, and Will merely grabs his wrist --- the touch so gentle, so stern -- and pours some of Hannibal's glass into his own. 

"Now you're sounding like my therapist." His voice is ...restrained. Laced with steel. Hannibal can smell the whiskey on him, see the way it ages Will, his jaw harsher, his eyes the color of bruised apples. 

Will's face is set in that coy smile. He cut himself shaving this morning, gave up halfway through, and Hannibal can still smell the mint of his shaving cream and the copper of his blood.

A quirked brow. "Am I not?" Here they stand in his office, sloppy clock drawings and ineligible notes neatly sectioned along his large desk.

Will throws the drink back in a few gulps, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "We both know the answer to that." He claps a hand on Hannibal's arm, old college buddies, his palms leaving sweat-dots in the cashmere. "Now move, unless you want me to piss myself right here."

* * *

Hannibal insists Will stays the night with him -- a spare bedroom, a couch, anywhere but Will’s car in the deep snow and the dark with his fingers starting to tremble. 

"Is that my..." Will swallows when he leans his head into the dining room, the first time he's set foot in Hannibal's house since the night he'd dragged Gideon here. "Is that my dick?"

Hannibal looks over his shoulder, impaling lemon wedges on the lips of his and Will's water glasses. "Yes. I entered it into evidence when you began to accuse me, so I wanted it returned now that you are free."

"And you framed it?" 

Hannibal wraps Will's fingers around the bitterly cold glass; Will sucks a breath through his teeth. Above the fireplace, where "Leda and the Swan" once hung, is Will Graham's penis diving out of the waves of blue linen bed sheets like a great, veiny whale. 

Will steps away from Hannibal, towards it, studying the way the light reflects off its golden frame, its glass cell. Hannibal gently pulls him back as his breath starts to fog. 

Will swallows, throat dry. "I really had the fat and the vein going, huh?" And it stung that he could not remember taking nor sending it, only waking up hours later walking along the road with only his phone in hand, unread messages from Dr. Hannibal Lecter crawling up the screen. 

Will had considered not speaking to him for days, possibly for the rest of his life, possibly faking his own suicide and rebuilding a whole new life in Cuba -- saved only by the fact that, unlike so many almost-flings in college, Hannibal had not claimed it was a fake. 

"The guests at my last dinner party were shocked, to say the least, but I think "Leda and the Swan" has had enough time in the spotlight. Your photo made me realize that I don't do enough to support more contemporary forms of art."

"It _is_ art..." 

Hannibal chuckles at the reverence in Will’s whisper.

Will finally remembers the glass in his hand, the spilled water still dripping off his skin, and drinks until the cold has spread through his whole chest. "Did anyone ..." A gesture, a fighting through the thick blanket of liquor wrapped tight around his brain. "Recognize the sender? Me?"

Hannibal smiles with only half of his face. "Only Jack." 

* * *

“Do I really have to eat with Will Graham’s genitals _dangling_ in my face?” Gideon asked, twirling his fork in his fingers. 

Hannibal chewed his words, swallowed. He wanted to ask how Gideon figured it out, but then again, who else would it be? Who else has it ever been? 

Before he could reply, however, Gideon added, “I’m assuming you remember the Rotenburg case.”

“I do,” Hannibal said. “ _Der Metzgermeister:_ The Master Butcher. What of it?” 

Gideon tapped his fork against his plate, his grip too loose to keep rhythm. “Oh, nothing much. Just you plastering Will’s family jewels over where your “Leda” used to be has me wondering…”

He looked at his leg, browned and gridded in sugar, and thought of penises reduced to wrinkled hot dogs in a skillet. Boiling in water. Heated in a microwave.

He looked back at Hannibal’s latest art piece and estimated the size. _Jesus H. Christ._ “Wondering about the truly dreadful possibility that when this all happens to you, you’re going to like it.”

* * *

The horse. The gun. The blood-soaked social worker. 

Will says "Take me home," and Hannibal thinks _fucking finally._

Will says, “Take me home” and makes Hannibal stop at the store so he can buy pipes and duct tape and two bottles of whiskey the size of his head. 

Will says, “Take me home,” and shuts the door in Hannibal’s face. 

Hannibal wonders how suspicious it would be if Will disappeared, just for a little bit. Wonders for the twelve steps it takes to reach his car, before he’s decided.

* * *

Before he can kidnap Will, something odd happens. Will skips his appointment. Then another, then another.

Randall Tier is carving crimson into the snow and Will Graham’s phone is off the hook. 

Hannibal and Jack both find his house empty. His dogs have a new automatic feeder made of a water jug, pipes, and various other spare parts all held together with duct tape.

They find Randall Tier five bodies later, and Hannibal tells Randall that the difference between good and great predators is _commitment_. 

* * *

A body shatters the glass. 

Hannibal struts in, hands dripping with parsley and fat, and Will is there, dripping with sweat and blood. Will shakes off his hand and something viscous streaks across the beautiful dining room table. 

"Will, you certainly gave me quite a scare,” Hannibal says, grabbing a cloth napkin from off the table to wipe himself with. “I see you met my old patient, Randall Tier.” 

Already the smell of alcohol. Already the bloodstained eyes and bruised apples.

Hannibal can’t measure out how much of him is elevated and how much is sad. 

Will is dressed in sweatpants and a fluffy purple bathroom that hangs bloated off his body, as though he were pregnant. “What the fuck was that about?” he snaps, his hand flinging towards Randall’s corpse, more white spotting the raw meat mess where Randall Tier’s right eye used to be. 

Will’s other hand is holding a gun. 

Hannibal says, “I wanted to find you.”

“So you sent some guy in a fucked up Bionicle fursuit? Motherfucker nearly took off my _head._ ”

Hannibal almost cringes at the crass venom in Will's voice. Before he can reply, however, Will smiles and says, “But I guess that makes us even now, doesn’t it? I send someone to kill you, you send someone to kill me. Even Steven.”

Hannibal looks at his hands, slick and shiny with the fat of the greasy, middle-aged man who’d hit on Alana and beaten his pinball high-score, and then to the floor. Studying the scene caught in scattered glass at Will’s feet: himself, curious and cruel; Will, triumphant and twitchy; and the corpse. 

Hannibal watches himself reply, “Consider it an act of reciprocity,” in a thousand little reflections. Will smiles humorlessly. 

Then, “Where did you run off to, Will?” 

“Oh, nowhere special. Just needed to clear my head.” He steps forward, and Hannibal feels his blood stir as the pink of Will’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He stands so close the alcohol is a wave rolling off of him, powerful and sickening and crazed, so close he could shoot Hannibal as quickly as Hannibal could grab him.

In fact, his thumb plays at the hammer like he can’t decide whether to cock it. In fact, he brings his hand up, aiming idly at the ceiling. “Just had to remember what one of my roommates in college once said after I got dumped.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. “And what was that?” 

“Sometimes you just have to fuck a bagel.” And his other hand goes for his robe’s pocket before he flings torn, white-soaked chunks of bread onto the table. One of them hits Randall in the face and sticks to his hair. 

Will makes his dirtiest hand a phone by his ear, says, “ _Hi yeah, I’m gonna need a baker’s dozen, fat-plus-vein-sized holes with a side of strawberry cream cheese._ Between you and Jack setting my brain on fire, I’d forgotten how much brighter even a little post-nut clarity makes me.”

Hannibal stares, face frozen in shock. “Please tell me this is a joke,” he says finally. 

Will cocks the gun, rips the thin knot out of his robe -- revealing his chest strapped with pipes, and duck tape, and wires, and blinking LED clock screens. 

“Will,” (oh how sweet it is, to hear true _horror_ in Hannibal Lecter’s voice), “please listen --”

Will cocks the gun. 

“Will,” Hannibal slowly reaches out, voice low and gentle. “You’re losing your mind again.” 

“Have I lost my mind, Hannibal?” Will asks with a wild, devious smile. “Or is this the way the world ends?” 

And he fires two shots into the ceiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Abel Gideon and Abigail Hobbs are watching a rerun of _90 Day Fiancé_ in Hannibal's living room when the gun goes off. 
> 
> Abigail jumps so hard she nearly falls off the couch and knocks instead into Gideon, spilling a stained tupperware container, a wet fork, and several leftover slices of his boiled penis onto the floor.
> 
> Gideon throws his head back and groans: "Oh, God damnit."


End file.
